Animosity
by Marcella Polman
Summary: There’s really nothing suspicious about the way Daniel Cleaver and Mark Darcy hate each other, now is there? Slash. Complete.
1. Ian: My new working project

Summary: There's really nothing suspicious about the way Daniel Cleaver and Mark Darcy hate each other, now is there? Slash. Complete.

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is inspired by the film Bridget Jones's Diary. Therefore, neither characters nor circumstances are mine.

About the story:

This is a slashfic, which means that its primary focus is on a same-sex love relationship. If this is not your cup of tea, then I strongly advise you not to drink it.

Although this is a fanfiction, you won't recognise any of the character's names. The reason for this is rather silly. Before I started writing, I thought that if I'd change the names and circumstances, I could pass my story as an original. I started with changing the names, and was quite pleased with the results. Changing the circumstances however, was much harder to do and no fun at all. So I reconsidered. I kept the names, though, because they already had grown on me. I don't think any Bridget fan will have difficulty figuring out the who is who in my fic. (And there's a – very redundant – clue: the names of the three main characters are very rough anagrams of the original names).

About the author:

I am a straight, happily married, native Dutch female, whose biggest hobby it is to read and write male to male slash fanfiction (but who can appreciate a good nonslash fic occasionally as well). I have written numerous fics inspired by numerous films and series before, but I never posted one until now, because I never seemed to be able to finish my fics. (I always felt a premature urge to start a new one.) This time I was. And I now know what to do to achieve success in the future: aiming to write a story instead of a novel.

About the inspiration:

The main inspiration for this story derives from Bridget Jones's Diary. However, before I started writing, I browsed through the stories already posted here, and I read some that helped me develop mine. I'd like to mention them here, and thank the authors.

First and foremost, I'd like to name Anja Boyce's 'Introducing Daniel Cleaver'. I loved reading it, and in the process of doing so, I instantly realised what fun it would be to crawl inside the head of a cad like Daniel, and I saw how this could be done. I owe Anja Boyce a lot: without her story, my chapter 1 would have turned out differently. Readers will notice strong similarities.

HeadGirlInTraining's 'Mark Darcy's Diary' (posted in the book department of this site) and Lady Boyd's 'Considering Bridget' showed me how Mark's neurotic POV would look on paper: swell.

Godess-sexy-angel1 ('Kimiko! Sex Godess') taught me that there is really only one way Mark could have found out about Daniel and his wife cheating on him: by catching them in the act.

Last but not least, I want to thank Snow Dome for writing 'Unbeknownst to You'. A dedicated slash writer myself, I didn't really need to read this story to write mine, but I did read it nonetheless, and with great pleasure. It was nice to come across an author who shared my opinion that Daniel/Mark is a pairing worth writing about. Reading the reviews of 'Unbeknownst to You', I noticed two 'camps': some reviewers appreciate the fact that it turns out to be a dream, others are sorry. I'm a member of the latter camp. 'Animosity' is my way to cope with my disappointment about the ending of Snow Dome's story.

Warnings:

Language, mild violence, explicit sex scenes, character death. The latter doesn't refer to anyone dying in this story – no one does – but indicates that one of the characters (or two, if you consider turning gay a major personality change) undergoes a major character alternation. Mr. Grant appears to have once said in an interview that he didn't think Daniel Cleaver could ever change, and if he did, it would be for the worse. I say, 'Screw you, Hugh.' Well, I don't of course, I wouldn't dare. But I strongly disagree, as my story will show you.

If you decide to read my story, I hope you will tell me what you think of it.

Love,

Marcella

**Chapter 1**

_Ian:My new working project_

I know she has a crush on me. They all do, and I like it. I like them. Women, I mean. Without them, I'd be bored to death.

I like women, and they understandably like me. I have the looks, the charm, the brains, and even a certain amount of power, seeing as I'm running a small publishing house. I like literature too, and I have a nose for the good stuff, despite my being graduated in English Law instead of English Literature.

I find that even my interest in books (which could be labelled boring, if you wanted) works in my favour with women. They confuse publishing books with writing them, I suppose. In any case, they seem to think that I have great emotional depth.

This is a misconception, of course. (As is the notion that authors possess such a depth, by the way; writing has everything to do with imagination, hardly anything with character). I am really terribly shallow. And proud of it.

With regard to women; as a sex, they are crucial to my wellbeing, as individuals they are highly interchangeable. I have never been in a 'meaningful relationship' with a woman, and I intend to keep it that way. I like to flirt and I love to fuck, but the longtermness that 'meaningful relationships' bring about creeps me out. Every woman I want bores me senseless after two weeks.

In some weird way, I'm hopelessly romantic, I guess. I mean I think I could stay faithful and deeply in love for the rest of my life, once I met the perfect woman. I haven't met her so far, though. All women have the same irritating flaw; they want me. I don't mean sexually; I applaud women wanting me sexually, wouldn't want to have it any other way – I'm not a rapist. I mean they want to turn me into something I am definitely not and never will be; a reliable and faithful partner. And they are usually not so subtle in their efforts. They pout and whine when I do not keep in close contact, when a date ends and another isn't set already. They act like they own me, or at least desperately want to. I hate it when they do that. It's suffocating. Castrating, if you want.

My standard reaction isn't very elegant, I must confess. I'm a bit passive-aggressive. I agree on setting another date, then cancel it just in time. It's not very nice, I know, but I haven't said I was a nice chap. And in a way, I'm doing those women a favour. I'm certain that if I'd change (theoretically) in the direction they seem to want me to and become reliable and faithful, they'd fall out of love in an instant, and go on a search for someone more interesting.

Men and women are not very different in that respect, I think. As long as it's new, it's good. This applies to both sexes, in my opinion. But the weak amongst us get scared at some (usually age-related) point, which forces them to accept entrapment in stable and dull relationships and marriages.

Not me. I'll never stoop that low. When I'm interested in a woman, it's the chase that thrills me, as well as the consumption of the prey, but afterwards I immediately feel hungry for another.

I'm hungry now, eyeing Geraldine Brady (what a name!) through the window of my office. She's on the phone. No doubt chatting to one of her silly little friends. They are always phoning her about something or another. It has been like that since the day she came to work here, some four month ago. I haven't made a pass on her so far. I don't know why, it's not that she wouldn't be willing. Maybe it's scruples about shagging the payroll. Or maybe it's about her sweet looks. (I may be shallow and I may be a bastard, but it's not that I _like _hurting other people's feelings. I always try to avoid messing with vulnerable women.) But whatever it is, I changed my mind. I want her. And I'll get her.

The conversation is over, and she puts the phone down, catching me looking at her in the process. I smile my slow smile. She turns purple and looks away. I grin. This is going to be wonderful.

She's gazing hard at her computer screen, so I start typing an e-mail to her. Something flirty, making sure not to give her the impression that I want anything more than sex.

Her response surprises me, not in swiftness, but in content. Apparently, she's not as bashful as she seems, at least not in writing. This is very good.

We banter back and forth e-mail wise, during the day. And during the rest of the week. I hardly get any work done, but it's all in a good cause; I'm reeling her in.

On Friday, I decide to reap what I sowed. I throw frequent and meaningful looks at her nice tits (with cleavage) and very short skirt (for me? I wonder. No, I don't. I know) and when we step out of the elevator (in which I feel her bum, I might add) to leave the office at the end of the day, I ask her out for dinner.

She almost reacts too eagerly, but pulls herself together and replies in a flat voice, 'Yes. Sure. Why not?'

I grin. Oh, my darling Geraldine, come to papa. 'Well, then, let's go,' I say. 'Do you like Mexican?'

She's enjoying herself very much, smiling and giggling constantly, cheeks red, eyes bright. And all because of me (and – in some part – the tequila slammers, I suppose). It's almost endearing.

I touch her hand across the table. She blushes and looks down, but doesn't pull back. I smile. Oh, yes, she'll be willing.

'Would you care for dessert?' I ask softly, raising a meaningful brow.

She turns purple. 'No. No, thank you,' she chokes.

Oh, come on, Geraldine, it's only a shag. Preceded by ice cream, if you want.

'Well, then I suggest coffee at my place,' I say. No way am I going to let her off the hook.

But she has no plans to resist me, as it appears. 'I'd like that,' she whispers.

In the taxicab, I let my hand rest just lightly on her shoulder, as a promising but not indecent gesture.

As soon as I close the front door behind me, however, I grab and I grope her, and she lets me. She desperately clings to me as I kiss her thoroughly, and she sighs as I run my thumb over one of her nipples under her blouse. Oh, indeed, she needs this.

'Ian,' she whispers. It's almost a sob.

Right. This is going to be good, but there are some terms to be agreed upon.

'This is just for fun, right?' I say. 'I don't think we need to make something serious out of it.'

Her reaction stuns me. At this point, most women – weak with desire – would agree with me on anything I said (although they usually regret it in the morning). But Geraldine pulls back. 'What a load of rubbish,' she says. 'And what a mean twister you are. I won't have any of this. Good night.'

She stresses her point by throwing me a fierce look and walking out the door.

I'm flabbergasted. And more determined than ever to get her between my sheets.


	2. Cedric: My mother's new project

**Chapter 2 **

_Cedric:My mother's new project_

As always, the Abercrombies ring in the New Year by organising their annual Turkey Curry Buffet. As always, the guest list is the same it was the previous year. And as always, the guests never cease to inquire about the presence of a woman in my life.

I think it's my mother. (She's not the woman people are referring to, of course, although my mother is the only woman in my life, as I have no sisters.) I mean, she's very worried about my being still single, and I fear she has contaminated the other members of the tight and faithful Abercrombie-circle with this affliction.

I was married once. Nine years ago, to be precise. The marriage deteriorated after two weeks, and we got divorced within a year. Women do have shown interest in me since (I'm a successful and reasonably good-looking barrister) but never again have I dared to put my heart at stake. Her betrayal – and his – hurt me more than anything in my entire life did.

My mother is determined to have grandchildren, though. So I'm frequently introduced to women she considers suitable daughters-in-law. It's not that she doesn't have taste, my mother, or that she is a snob – she can't afford to be one in this matter – it's just that I don't like having potential partners forced upon me. I've told her this numerous times, but her usual reply is something to the effect of, 'Darling, I'm not forcing anything upon you. What on earth gives you that idea? It's just that if I leave it to you, I'll never have grandchildren.'

So she won't stop it. I lost count, but by rough estimation, I think I've been introduced to about hundred women in the past eight years. I usually behave like a dork towards them, and not even on purpose. I'm just not very good at courting. The few women that are in fact interested in meeting me a second time, never opt for a third. I don't mind really. Henrietta successfully turned me off the female race.

My mother approaches me and takes my arm. 'Oh, darling, she has arrived!' she exclaims ecstatically. 'I'll introduce you.'

'She' is the daughter of Liam and Patricia Brady, who – as my mother told me – recently have been added to the Abercrombie-circle. I already know her name is Geraldine, as well as about everything else there is to know about her (according to my mother, that is).

I'm coaxed along toward a corner of the room where a woman of about 32 (I guess) is being held by her arm by another whom I never have seen before (probably Patricia Brady). My mother and the female ward exchange smug glances, and I instantly know that Geraldine has received the same warming-up treatment from her mother with regard to me, as I have had with regard to her from mine. God, no.

I free myself from my mother's grip to shake hands with both mss. Brady. 'I'm Cedric Carmichael. How do you do?' (I don't have to look at my mother to know she thinks I'm such a good boy.)

'Oh, Cedric, how nice to meet you at last,' Patricia Brady coos. 'Your mother has told us so much about you. I'm Patricia Brady by the way. And this is my daughter Geraldine. She has been dying to meet you.'

If she has, it didn't kill her, because she clearly is dying from embarrassment right now.

'It's a pleasure to meet you,' I say. I'm so sorry, I want to tell her. She looks like a nice girl to me. She doesn't deserve this ordeal anymore than I do.

'Come, Patricia, we'd better go now,' my mother says. 'I'm sure Cedric and Geraldine have a lot to talk about.'

They leave.

After a pause, I say, 'I'm so sorry about this.'

Geraldine nods. 'Yes, so am I. It's hard enough to be single without everybody constantly reminding you that you ought to have a partner at your age.'

She sounds rather spiteful. 'Don't you like to be single?' I ask.

'Well, it's not like I'm on the verge of becoming a lonely and bitter spinster, of course,' she responds quickly. 'I mean, I have a great job, wonderful friends, and lots of interesting hobbies. But I don't like to imagine that my current lack of boyfriend would be a permanent thing, no.'

I am surprised. Though maybe not exactly beautiful, she certainly is attractive. Why doesn't she have a boyfriend if she wants one?

'What's keeping you from getting one? A boyfriend, I mean.'

She regards me as though I'm mentally retarded. 'Do you manage to get all the women you're interested in?'

Oh. I see.

'No, I suppose I don't,' I say. 'But I don't try very often, I must confess.'

She narrows her eyes. 'You don't? Why not?'

I could consider this an impertinent question. But then again it differs not so much from the one I asked her, and besides, we're both the in-law-project of the other one's mother and this creates a bond between us, in a way.

'Well, I was married once, very briefly. Nine years ago. It's not an episode of my life I enjoy reminiscing.'

'Oh. I'm sorry.' she pauses, then says, 'Nine years is a long time. Have you never been interested in a woman since then?'

She looks as though she wouldn't believe a simple 'no, indeed, I haven't' to this question (as though the truth would be pathetic) and I feel the urge to defend myself.

'I guess I've been too busy resisting my mother's pressure to be interested in her numerous potential daughters in law.'

As soon as I've said this, I realise it could be considered a rude remark as she is after all one of my mother's potential daughters in law. But she just says, 'Yes, I can imagine.'

I don't think she does, though. She doesn't look offended, but I can see her thinking, 'Christ,_ nine years_?'

Maybe I have been making too much out of finding my wife in bed with my best man two weeks after the wedding. But I just happen not to have fallen in love since then.

I think it is time to change the subject of conversation. 'What's the story about you and men?' I inquire.

She doesn't answer right away, and I'm already taking a breath to apologise for the impertinence of my question when she says, in a much too flippant voice, 'Oh, none of my relationships has lasted very long. I have this habit of always being attracted to pricks, in fact.'

Ah. I know the type of woman (I was married to one) as well the type of prick (one of them was my best man). That's not Geraldine's fault, though, so I'm about to venture something sympathetic when I notice she looks a bit uncomfortable. And I realise why. The implications of her words are either a) that she isn't attracted to me or b) that she thinks I'm a prick. Probably a.

I try a reassuring smile and get a relieved one back. That blush really becomes her.

When we leave the party, my mother is delighted. 'Darling, I haven't seen you talking to a woman for this long in ages! Did you get her telephone number? Oh, never mind, I'll ask Patricia Brady.'


	3. Ian: My catching the prey

**Chapter 3 **

_Ian:My catching the prey_

On the first working day after the holidays, Geraldine acts as though I don't exist. I know she's just playing the hard to get game with me, and I find it very attractive (almost endearing to see how much effort she puts in it). I'm better at it than she is, of course, and I keep her hanging for a few days, in the meantime observing that she awaits my next move with growing anticipation. On Friday, I decide to put her out of her misery.

I saunter over to her desk. It's after five and we're alone in the office. She has to work her hours, as she has been late a couple of times this week. And I, well, I have an agenda.

She pretends not to notice me, and I stand behind her, putting my hands on either side of her keyboard, leaning in a little.

'Would you do me the honour to marry me, Geraldine?' I ask, my lips a bare inch from her cheekbone.

She blushes, but doesn't turn her head. 'Sorry, I can't,' she says. 'I have this principle of not marrying my employers.'

Good, sensible girl, I can't help thinking. But I say, 'Well, that's a pity. But you could perhaps find it in your heart to soften the blow and have dinner with me.'

I step back so she can turn and look at me. 'I think I could,' she says happily.

Dining with Geraldine is a very enjoyable experience again. She accepts dessert this time, which I take as a good sign.

We decide on coffee at my place. 'You are going to spend the night, aren't you?' I ask, placing slow and soft kisses everywhere on her pretty face as I close the door behind me. She sighs and nods and I know I'll have her.

Shagging Geraldine appears to be very gratifying too, especially because she enjoys it so much. She probably has been starving.

Afterwards I fall asleep while I'm holding her, too sated to worry.

I do when I awake, however. Before I even open my eyes, I know she's looking at me with that happy expression of a woman with expectations. She's picturing us walking down the isle, playing in the park with our kids, a boy aged six and a girl aged three. Oh, God, what have I done?

I brace myself, though. I can do this. For the duration of a fortnight, I can pretend to be the perfect boyfriend. I open my eyes. 'Good morning, love,' I smile.

Positively beaming, she snuggles beside me. 'Oh, Ian,' she sighs.

I force myself to stay relaxed, to kiss her hair. 'Stay in bed,' I whisper. 'I'll make you breakfast.'

We spend the entire weekend together. She's nice company, I believe – sweet and funny and sensuous – but she shows so abundantly that she's in love that I'm feeling utterly uncomfortable. To cause this kind of happiness in another person is a real burden. I find it suffocating. And I realise – again – that I'll never marry.

I do pretend that I'm in love too, though. On Sunday night, I'm exhausted. We do agree that no one at the office must know about us.

The next morning, we sort of ignore each other – which suits me very well. I leave early, declaring – in general – that I wish everybody a pleasant evening and a healthy return the following day. From the corner of my eye, I see that Geraldine looks rather disappointed. Well, she'll live.

She calls, of course, that night.

'Hi, Ian, it's Geraldine. I was wondering …' her voice trails off.

I force myself to say gently, 'Hi, honey. Sorry to have ignored you today. But we agreed upon a low profile at the office, didn't we?'

She must confess we did.

'And besides, I don't think it's a good idea to see too much of each other at the start of a new relationship,' I resume. 'But why don't you think of something you'd like us to do together this weekend, and I'll come over on Wednesday night so you can tell me about it.'

She's clearly thrilled about the prospect of spending the weekend with me, _and_ seeing me on Wednesday.

As I put the phone down, I sigh deeply before continuing reading my book. It's Ross Philip's debut novel, and exceptionally well written. The publisher in me hates this, as Philip isn't one of our authors. I remind myself to talk to the chap about his contract on next Friday's book ball, before I submerge in his words again.

On Wednesday night, Geraldine is overjoyed to see me. Three days of Ian-abstinence is a lot for her, apparently. (She'll be in for something worse soon, poor girl.)

She has thoroughly thought about the weekend and comes up with sleeping in late (oh, really?), going to a matinee on Saturday to see a romantic movie (of course), dining out in the evening (mandatory, indeed), sleeping in late again the next morning, and going ice-skating in the afternoon (the epitome of romance, obviously).

'And … and sex,' she blushes.

I smirk. Her wishes for the weekend are detailed but modest. Part of me is surprised that she hasn't mentioned a trip to Paris. 'Sex doesn't have to wait till the weekend,' I say, 'let's start with that right away.'

We have a very pleasant shag. I tell her so, before I go home. And I ask her to be my date to the book ball on Friday. (I know. People from the office will be there too, probably inferring that we're a 'couple'. But I've decided that if – for a fortnight – I'm pretending to be Geraldine's boyfriend, I'd better do it right.) She says she'll be happy to join me.

As we arrive at the ball, I bump into someone familiar. As does Geraldine, apparently.

'Cedric!' she exclaims.

'Geraldine.' He looks from her to me. 'Ian,' he states coolly, then looks back at her again. 'I see you've found yourself a boyfriend. Congratulations.' His voice distinctly sounds as though he's offering condolences.

Geraldine looks confused while CC wishes us a pleasant evening and leaves.

'Do you know Cedric Carmichael?'

'I could ask you the same question,' I return.

'I met him a few weeks ago, at a New Year party,' she says.

'I met him in college. We went to law school together,' I enlighten her, in the same matter of fact tone.

'He doesn't seem to like you very much.' Ah. Very perceptive Geraldine.

'Well, you know how it goes,' I say flippant. 'It's the same old story, really. Two chaps fall in love with the same girl. She chooses one. The other resents it for life.' Though this isn't exactly a lie, it isn't the whole truth either. But I don't see the point in informing Geraldine about my role in the animosity between CC and myself.

'Poor Cedric,' she states.

Yes, well, he was asking for it, in a way. Terribly gullible of him to think that Henrietta would be faithful. We started having an affair, months before the wedding.

'Let's see if we can talk to Ross Philip,' I say. I really could do with a change of subject.


	4. Cedric: My deepest sympathy

**Chapter 4**

_Cedric:My deepest sympathy_

It's a shock to see her – with him. I liked her, despite my mother's interference. I even thought about her a couple of times during the previous weeks. But now it turns out she's with him. She's always attracted to pricks, indeed.

It hurts. Seeing him always does. We bump into each other occasionally (once or twice a year, approximately). It's unavoidable; we both live and work in London. I'm a barrister, so I meet many people. He's a publisher, so he does too. And once in a while, the people we meet are the same ones. I hate it when it happens, but I've come to accept the risk.

I never considered leaving town. I had too much pride. He took my wife; I wouldn't let him have my city as well. Henrietta did leave, though. Once she discovered she wasn't the only one Ian had an affair with, she went to Manchester. From my mother I heard she married a banker and has three children now.

I never came across Ian and Henrietta as a couple in the past, but that is not a real consolation. Seeing him, every time accompanied by yet another attractive woman, hurts badly enough. It's a regular reminder that he can have anything he wants, and throw it away when he's fed up with it, without serious repercussions.

Like he did with our friendship.

No. I don't want to think about that. I decide to join my mother, who is talking to her big discovery and protégé, Ross Philip. She's an important benefactor to young artists in London. She arranged that Ross was published, and now she's providing him with the right mix of public attention and privacy, as he's only 24, rather shy and not used to publicity.

I arrive just in time to witness my mother telling a couple of vultures – very politely, of course – to piss off. In their midst – what a surprise – is Mr. Vulture himself, accompanied by his freshly found lay-for-a-day. (Jesus, jealous much, Cedric?). She looks at me – how? Guiltily? Compassionately? (Oh, please, god, no. What has he told her?) I feel the urge to warn her, but I don't. She won't believe me until it's too late, when she'll have found out on her own what a prick he is.

The third time I meet her is on the occasion of a rather premature 'spring garden party' (it's not even mid-February yet) once again organized by the Abercrombies. The guests don't see much of the garden, though, because there's a large party tent set up on the lawn. There's electric heating too, which is a blessing, because it's quite cold.

She's alone. She sees me. She hesitates. I walk over to her.

'Geraldine. How nice to see you again.' I have to know. 'Is, um … I take it that Ian couldn't come?'

'Yes, that would be a fair assumption,' she says, rather aggressively. 'My bet too, would be that he's far too busy shagging his latest sex-project.'

God, she's angry. And eager to talk, apparently. 'What happened?' I ask.

I can see the hurt kick in as the memory emerges. Her tone of voice is very different from angry when she says, 'I caught them you know. Her, I mean. I visited his house. He was behaving very strangely lately, cancelling dates, not answering my phone calls, so I was wondering … he wouldn't open the door at first, and when he finally did, he acted really weird, and he looked like he had gotten dressing in a hurry.' She swallows. 'I knew something was wrong, and I went, um, sort of hysterical, I guess. I rushed to his bedroom. He ran after me, but I was quicker. I threw the door open, and then I saw … her. She was 20 at the most. And gorgeous.'

She's barely audible, but she seems to shake off her depressed mood and her voice is much louder when she adds, 'And when I left he had the nerve to apologise!'

God, I feel for her. Still, I'm torn between comforting her and fleeing the scene. It hurts to see her like this. She so much reminds me of myself, when I was … Nine years ago. Our stories are so similar. Well, mine is yet a little wryer. I literally caught them in the act, Henrietta and Ian. My wife and my best man. Best mate, I had thought.

I had come home late from work, but not as late as I had expected and told Henrietta. I knew she was home – the door wasn't locked and the lights were on – but she didn't respond to my calling her. She wasn't in the living room or in the kitchen, but I thought I heard noises upstairs. As I opened the bedroom door, I saw them. Her body was arched backwards beneath his. He was … moving. Shifting back and forth. The motion of his bare shoulders clearly visible against the pale sheets.

I felt like I was kicked in the stomach; all air was pressed out of me. I suppose I made a sound. They stopped. Henrietta turned her head away, but Ian looked at me. 'God, Cyd. I'm so sorry'.

Someone (not me – somebody else had taken over) said very calmly, 'I expect you both to have left this house within ten minutes.'

It was only when they were gone that I started to tremble. I recall that I couldn't stop shaking for hours.

'Cedric?'

I snap out of the memory. Geraldine is regarding me with a concerned expression on her face.

'Are you all right?'

'Yes. Yes I am,' I tell her.

'You looked like you were very far away for a moment.'

'Sorry. Your story … got to me, I guess.'

'Really? Why is that?' She's not a very discrete woman, Geraldine. But then again, I asked about her first.

'Something similar happened to me once.' I can't help whispering. I swallow. 'Nine years ago I caught Ian in bed with my wife.'

'Your wife!' She instantly clasps a hand for her mouth, and looks around to see if anybody heard her exclamation.

I do the same. Fortunately and remarkably, nobody seems particularly interested in our conversation.

'I'm sorry,' she says.

'It happened two weeks after the wedding. He was the best man,' I say, to explain things.

'What a jerk,' Geraldine comments.

'Indeed,' I agree.

We fall silent for a while. Thinking – I only know about myself, of course, I have to guess about her – what a complete bastard Ian Lovelace is, what a weird coincidence that we both fell victim to his betrayal, and how, indeed, a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved.

I am the first to speak. Rather daring (for me, that is) I say, 'You know, I find I quite like bumping into you at gatherings. But maybe we shouldn't leave it up to fate when our next conversation shall be. Can I call you sometime?'

She looks at me; eyes squinted a little – considering members of the male sex and reliability, no doubt. 'Yes,' she says slowly. 'Why not.'

At the end of the afternoon, my mother is – once again – very pleased with me. 'I saw you talking to Geraldine Brady,' she says. 'She's such a lovely woman. You are going to call her, aren't you, darling?'

Yes, mother,' I reply obediently, but truthfully. 'I am.'


	5. Ian: My predator instincts revive

**Chapter 5**

_Ian:My predator instincts revive_

For almost a week now, you could cut the atmosphere in the office with a knife. Geraldine resigned and didn't keep the reason a secret. Everybody was choosing her side.

I'm not really worried, though. I'm paying the salaries, and my charm is still relentless. It never ceases to erase the rational thinking abilities of the women it is directed to. No matter what she knows about me, every woman I want falls for me, eventually. Numerous times, I have slept with women I had dumped before, just because I could. It doesn't matter how much I hurt them, they all seem to think they can change me – this time.

My staff is almost entirely female. They'll forgive me. And I'm fairly certainly that I can win back Geraldine too, if I'd want. She more or less caught me while I was shagging Melissa, so it'll take a while, I guess, but I will conquer if I set my heart on it.

For two weeks, I did the very best I could. I even was faithful to Geraldine for 18 days, and that's a record. But then I went to a pub and met Melissa, wanted her, took her home, and shagged her. She was young, beautiful, and willing. And I realised I was really fed up with Geraldine wanting me to behave like one half of a couple.

Not that I'm proud of the way I let her know that; she shouldn't have found Melissa in my bed. But it happened.

For reasons unknown to me at first, I have difficulty forgetting about Geraldine, though. The desire to win her back emerges far sooner than I'd expected. I can't even complete two weeks with Melissa before I dump her.

It's a little out of control and it gets me thinking. And then I understand. It's not because she means something special to me (she doesn't); it's because she is linked to CC. I don't know what their exact relationship is, but I do know that they're acquainted and apparently like each other. (I noticed the glances of sympathy she threw him after I told her I once was chosen over him by a woman we both fancied.)

I also know that I don't want her to be important to his wellbeing. (At this point, I suppose it's abundantly clear that I am a well and truly wicked person. I don't have to fain something different.) I don't want anybody to be essential to CC's happiness, and I have felt this way for almost a decade now.

We were great friends once. It started in college, when I noticed that he took an instant like to me. This was peculiar, because not many chaps did, or do. The wonderful skill I have in charming women, I lack with members of my own sex. I don't mind, because I'm not particularly interested in men.

This is not meant to overstate that I'm a heterosexual (which I am, as can be derived from what I've said so far). I just don't see the point in having male friends. Men are there to compete with in order to win, aren't they? So where's the 'friends' in that?

I can be friendly towards men, of course. I'm a businessman, so I have to. But it's all strategy; there are no genuine feelings of sympathy involved.

Cedric Carmichael was the proverbial exception. He liked me, I liked him back. I really enjoyed our friendship. I think – I reluctantly admit this – I even 'cared' for him. As far as I'm capable of caring, that is.

He certainly cared for me. To a degree where it wasn't healthy anymore, I sometimes suspected. I teased him, called him Cyd (making sure he knew how I'd spell it; different from the boy's name Sid), or Sissy (from CC). He didn't mind.

All waking hours when I wasn't busy messing with girls we spend together, hanging out, studying, that sort of thing. He never had a girlfriend, but he took it upon him to console the girls I slept with and dumped. I mean he sincerely did; he never lost his virginity in the process. He did ask me to stop hurting those women, but he never threatened to end our friendship. Women – individual women – were temporary; CC was the constant factor in my life.

And then Henrietta came to Cambridge. CC fell in love with her. I was also attracted to her (no reason why I wouldn't be) and she was attracted to me as well (again, no reason why she shouldn't) but she told me she was aiming for marriage, and I didn't fit her plans. CC did.

The night of their first date, I went into a rage. No one had ever betrayed me like this. When I had calmed down, I decided to sleep with every girl (amongst others) who ever laid eyes on CC. Two days later, Henrietta and I began our affair.

It ended a fortnight after their wedding. 'It' being the affair (although she did try to prolong it, and I played along for a while), the marriage, and my friendship with CC (although, to be honest, I consider the latter ending the first night he went out with Henrietta). It took a while before I could forget the expression on his face when he caught us. I never saw so much pain. It really made me feel guilty for some time. But then I remembered that I hated him too.

We have been enemies ever since, accidentally colliding once or twice a year, adopting very cool demeanours on such occasions. But not a moment has past in the previous nine years that I didn't hate CC. And now, he has every opportunity to play the great comforter to Geraldine. I have to find out if he grabs it.

I know where she works, she told me rather triumphantly the day she resigned, so I drive there at the end of the day (not too late, though, she might leave early) intending to follow her. (No idea what I'm expecting to gain from that, she just as well could head straight home.) Sitting in my car, I realise that I'm stalking her. Jesus, how low have I stooped. I've never been a stalker before (those are weak, pathetic people) just a stalkee upon occasion.

My self-humiliation is rewarded, though. Another car arrives and a tall man gets out. I would recognise him anywhere.

Leaning against the hood, he waits until she appears. When she does, he starts walking over to her. She smiles (probably he does too, but I can only see his back). They meet and kiss, not very passionate, but significant nonetheless. I have to do something. I have to have her back.

I go over to her place at night. Apparently, she's alone. His car doesn't seem to be anywhere near the building.

As I ring the bell, her voice through the intercom greets me pleasantly, 'Hey. That is really very quick indeed.'

For a moment I feel caught, thinking that she's has seen through my plan to win her back. Then I realise there's a second, more plausible, option. She's expecting somebody else. Her new beau. Cedric Carmichael. I have to be quick.

'It's me,' I say. 'I'd really like to talk to you, Geraldine. Can I come upstairs?'

'I see absolutely no reason why you should,' she responds icily. 'I have friends visiting me, and my boyfriend will be back with some groceries any minute, so …'

'Then there's no danger at all in letting me in,' I say innocently. Her friends are probably a bunch of giggling girls, instantly smitten at the sight of me. 'I just want to talk. And Cedric is a big boy.' When CC arrives … well, I'd like to see if he could keep a woman when it comes to it.


	6. Cedric: My losing control

**Chapter 6**

_Cedric:My losing control_

My girlfriend – I think I can safely conclude that's what she is, I already told my mother, who was overjoyed – turns out not to be a very good cook. It's not a big problem, because I am. I'll make sure her friends will eat something entirely different from the culinary disaster she concocted earlier tonight. (I want to show off a little, and why wouldn't I.)

It's new to me, this relationship thing. It feels a bit strange, unnerving, but I assume that's normal. After all, I have been single for nine years.

I seem to have forgotten all about sex. 'Being' with Geraldine makes me feel very nervous. Fortunately, she's patient, so I expect I will learn in time.

To be perfectly honest, I don't know a lot about the subject of sex anyway. My relationship with Henrietta didn't last long enough for me to gain much sexual knowledge and skills. I wasn't exactly a virgin when the marriage ended, but I far from jumped her bones at the first date. I was rather shy. I thought she found it quite endearing, but maybe it added to her turning to Ian.

Oh, god, Ian. Every thought about anything significant seems to lead to him. It has always been like that, before as well as after I caught him in bed with my wife.

To me, he was the most notable student in our year when we entered college. He was handsome, yes, and clever. He also had this loneliness floating around him that I recognised. He hid it behind extreme extraversion (which I admired but couldn't muster myself). And he fled it by messing with girls, I guess. It pained me to see him hurt those women, but I didn't give up on him, because our friendship was special. I thought. Until he cheated on me with my wife.

At first, I thought I would never be able to cope with this double betrayal of my trust by the people I cared for most of all. At first, I wasn't able to fall asleep in my erstwhile wedding bed, without masturbating, and thinking about what they were doing when I caught them. Anger and arousal smelted easily together. It still is an effective fantasy. I never ceased to hate him.

Hating him (far more than I ever hated her) gave me strength. I kept the house Henrietta and I had bought in London before the marriage, despite what had happened in there. And I still live in it. I can handle the sight of Ian a couple of times a year. Hatred is a powerful shield against hurt.

As the traffic light turns green, I realise that I have to focus on where I'm going, or I'll miss the supermarket to which Geraldine has given me directions. I do not intend to cook anything fancy; in my opinion, the simpler a meal, the more impressive its taste. I don't need many groceries, and I'm back at Geraldine's house within half an hour.

'Cedric?' Her voice through the intercom sounds strangely reluctant.

'What's wrong, Geraldine?'

'Nothing,' she says. 'It's just that … Ian is here.'

Oh, god. Oh, Jesus, no. It's all happening again.

Well, it's not, I decide. He is not going to steal a woman from me again.

'Can I come upstairs?' I ask, putting every effort in suppressing the anger in my voice.

'Of course.'

She presses the buzzer; the door opens. I'm walking the stairs very slowly, bracing myself.

Geraldine opens the front door for me. 'I'm so sorry,' she says lowly. 'I shouldn't have let him in. But he just was …'

Charming his way in, of course. The bastard.

'Are you all right?' She has a worried look on her face.

'I'm fine,' I say. 'I just want to talk to him.'

There's a dead silence as I enter the living room. Everybody is looking at me. Ian gives me a slight ironic smirk. And that does it.

'Outside, Ian,' I say.

He laughs. 'I'm sorry? Outside? Should I bring my duelling pistols or my sword, CC?'

'Step outside, Ian,' I repeat. My tone is harsh, and I stare hard at him.

His expression changes and I know he knows I'm serious. He tries to sound sneering, but I hear a slice of fear creeping into his voice when he says, 'Oh no, it's not possible.'

'Outside,' I repeat once more with authority. And he follows me.

As we are on the street, I turn to him. He's smirking at me again. Geraldine and her friends have come outside to watch us, so maybe that is giving him confidence.

'Well, CC, what is this all about?' he says.

My god, doesn't he know? Does he really haven't a clue what he's doing to me?

I look at him standing in front of me, handsome and seemingly relaxed, and I suddenly want to destroy that sight. I've never really expressed my rage, and it's pouring out right now.

I rush towards him, and grab him. I want to push him to the ground. He's shorter than I am, and rather slender, but he's quick. He runs. I go after him. I tackle him. He falls, groans.

'CC, what are you doing?'

Teaching you, bastard. Getting even.

He tries to get up, but I dive on top of him. He growls. I grab the hair at the back of his head and pull hard. He shrieks. He moves beneath me, trying to get away. I'm heavier though, and stronger. I turn him on his back, holding him down. We're facing each other. He's frightened now. Good.

'CC …' He sounds almost pleading. I don't buy it.

I sit, straddling his stomach, looking down on him. My best friend, my worst enemy. God, I hate him.

'You're going to pay, Ian. For everything.'

I punch him hard. He yelps. My fist hurts. There's blood. It only serves as an encouragement to me.

I hit his head several times. He screams. I shout, 'Bastard! Son of a bitch! Why! Why did you leave me!' My words interfere with his plea to 'Stop, Cedric, for god's sakes, you're killing me.'

I stop. I didn't mean to kill him. Or to say the words I just said. I don't know what has gotten into me.

I get off him. 'Can you stand?'

'Leave,' he replies. 'Just leave.'

I start walking away, swaying. I feel nauseated and dizzy.

Geraldine and her friends are watching me from a couple of yards distance. They look shocked.

'Are you all right?' Geraldine asks. I just nod.

'We'd better check if Ian is okay,' Rhonda says.

She walks over to him. He's still lying on the ground. She says something to him and he responds, but I can't hear the words.

'He says he'll be all right,' she informs us when she's back. 'But he looks horrible.' She gives me an accusing glare. 'Why did you beat him up like that? I know he cheated on Geraldine, but Jesus, you needn't kill him. You're lucky he won't press charges.'

She's right. I didn't know I was capable of this kind of violence. I'm not a violent person. Nothing, not even what Ian has done to me, justifies my behaviour.

I turn my head to look at Geraldine. She has a worried, but also musing expression on her face. I gather she's wondering what has happened just now. Why it happened. And she's not the only one.


	7. Ian: My thinking process

**Chapter 7**

_Ian:My thinking process_

Only when I'm sure they're out of sight I try to move. I barely can, and it hurts like hell. I manage to get to my car somehow, and when I look in the mirror, I decide that I need to see my doctor. Fortunately, he's on duty.

My upper lip needs stitches, and my left eye is promised to be a 'pretty neat shiner'. The other parts of my face and body are severely bruised, but nothing is broken, dislocated, or concussed, according to the doctor. This is remarkable, considering how hard Cedric punched me.

'What happened?' Dr. Grant inquires.

'A fight,' I say. I'm too tired and shocked to make something up to make it sound better.

'Well, Mr. Lovelace, you certainly know how to provoke anger in a person,' the doctor remarks dryly. He advises me to take it easy on the weekend, and to call in sick the first couple of days the next week.

I make it five. I don't feel well at all, and I don't want to startle my staff with the way I look. And besides, I have a lot to think about.

First, my main concern is my constitution. My body aches all over, even at places Cedric didn't touch. I don't have the strength to be bothered with what happened exactly. Only in the back of my mind, there's a lingering notion that I have to face that question as well as the repugnance to do so.

After The Dream, I can no longer avoid it. Cedric and I are in the water, having a swim, like we used to have sometimes when we were students at Cambridge. Suddenly, we're both about to drown. Cedric clings to me, keeping me down. I can't breathe, but I manage to extricate myself from him. It's a tremendous relief, until I notice that he's just floating in the water. I immediately realise that he's dead. I wake up in shock. It's a truly horrible dream.

What does it mean? Well, it certainly means that I have to think about the meaning of the fight we had. Or the fight he had with me, to put it more accurate.

I didn't take him serious at first. He sounded angry when he summoned me to step outside, but the idea of CC being capable of violence was just ludicrous actually. And besides, I don't like taking commands. Not from anybody, but certainly not from CC.

He meant it, though. He had a fierce look in his eyes that I had never seen before, not even when he caught Henrietta and me shagging each other.

I followed him outside (to have better opportunity to flee, if necessary) as did Geraldine and her gang.

I didn't have a clue what was going on in CC's head, so I teased him to tell me about it. I had better not done so, but I couldn't possibly have known it would provoke such a strong reaction.

He rushed towards me, grabbing me. I ran, but he tackled me, and I fell down. It hurt. I attempted to distract him by asking what he thought he was doing and trying to get away, but he threw himself on top of me, pulling at my hair. Jesus. I squirmed, but he appeared to be very strong when angry, which he certainly was now. He turned me on my back and I knew I was in for something bad. He hated me. Fiercely.

I admit that I was scared. I was also extremely focussed on any detail of what was happening. On the look in his eyes before he started hitting me. I saw anger, of course, and hurt, but also … longing? On the blows themselves. Hard, hurtful, and surreal and all too real at once; they were going to kill me. I heard CC's words on top of my screaming to stop him. 'Why? Why did you leave me?'

He stopped, looking at me for a second. Despite the shock and the aching of my already swelling face, I noticed a sudden lull. The world seemed to tilt for a moment, as to provide me with the opportunity to grasp the meaning of what just had happened, but then it shifted back into place.

CC got off me, asking if I was able to stand. I wasn't ready to try, so I told him to leave. Which he did, looking defeated, not at all like the victor he actually was.

He had been mad beyond comparison, though. Why?

He has always had a very gentle temperament. He never was cross about anything with anybody when we were in college and law school. Much to my exasperation sometimes. Why would he suddenly become so violent over a woman as nice but average as Geraldine Brady? He used to be not only CC but a sissy as well.

And then a thought occurs to me. What if it wasn't about Geraldine at all? Or even about Henrietta? What if it were about me?

Again, I experience the sensation of the world tilting, lifting a tip of its veil to disclose a secret that, once grasped in all its implications, will change my outlook on everything entirely.

It would make sense. It'd explain his high regard for our erstwhile friendship, his utter loyalty to me, as well as the hurt in his eyes when he caught me with his wife (and not the other way around; it was my betrayal that mattered most, not hers). It would explain why he demanded to know why I had _left_ him when he was beating me up.

The answer to that is quite simple by the way: because he left me first, when he chose Henrietta.

A sudden headache comes over me. I suspect it's caused by the loud thud as the tilted world shifts into place again. I don't want to think about it all anymore now.

It keeps haunting me though, and it's trying to change me. It _is_ changing me; I find that I feel empathy for Cedric's despair all of a sudden, despite my bruises. Remorse. (Me? Capable of being empathic and remorseful?) It's horrible, and yet it's pulling at me to come closer.

Vulnerable. I feel vulnerable. It's very unfamiliar to me. I once decided not to be vulnerable. I don't remember what provoked it, as I was very young at the time, but I do recall that the decision was quickly made, and fairly easily implemented.

It's tottering now, however. Maybe it's due to the physical damage Cedric has caused me; maybe it's not. But it certainly is because of Cedric.

What if he not only hates me, but is in love with me as well? How would that make me feel?

I don't know.

At the end of the week, I'm not so tired anymore, and I start to feel restless, so I go back to work on Monday, still looking at bit damaged. This turns out to be a good thing; my staff takes pity in me.

I still can't take my mind off Cedric though. I decide I need to talk to him. I don't know whether my theory about him is correct, or, if so, what the implications would be. But I have to check.


	8. Cedric: My unexpected visitor

**Chapter 8**

_Cedric:My unexpected visitor_

As I see who's at the door, I'm shocked. I didn't know whom to expect (for a moment I thought it would be Geraldine, but then I didn't, as she has called a time-out after our last conversation) but certainly not Ian. God, I'm not ready for this confrontation.

I consider not letting him in, but then I decide I'm not that much of a coward. It's best to get it over with as soon as possible, anyway.

'Hello, Ian,' I manage.

'Cedric. Can we talk?'

No! I want to scream. Let's forever hold our peace. But I say, as is expected, 'Certainly.'

He enters and takes off his coat. It's a very common thing to do, of course, nothing indecent, but to me – being in the state I have been in for the last two weeks – it resembles stripping. And it makes me feel very nervous.

I offer him a cognac – mostly because I need one myself – which he accepts.

We sit for a while, on opposite sides of the coffee table. I'm awaiting verbal assault (not the vulgar sort, but the more sophisticated and really hurtful kind, the kind I know he masters so well).

I'm bracing myself, but when he finally speaks, he says, 'God, Cedric, I'm so sorry.'

I don't understand. What is he sorry about? I'm the one who should apologise, for I beat him up. Traces of this are still visible on his face, although it is as beautiful as it ever was.

'I should apologise to you, I believe,' I say.

'Yes, I imagine you do,' he replies, putting his fingers to his mouth, were my first punch hit him. 'Don't be bothered by it too much, however. It probably was the only way to get the message through.'

'What message?'

God, I should have asked any question but this one. I don't want him to focus on the meaning of our fight. It's dangerous.

'You tell me,' he says.

No. No, I won't. I don't know why he's here. I don't know why he isn't (or doesn't appear to be) angry. I would prefer it if he were mad. It would make sense; I battered him. But if he intends to play a game with me, I won't let him. I know he can't be trusted. I learnt that the hard way.

'What are you here for, Ian?' I say in a harsh tone.

'To see if we could bury the hatchet,' he replies plainly. 'And perhaps be more than just erstwhile enemies.'

He looks at me with his pale blue eyes. ('Pale blue' shouldn't be adequate to describe the beauty of someone's eyes. But it is for his. Maybe it's the contrast with his tan skin and dark hair.) I look away. No. Don't go there. Don't pretend that the door is open to … I will not be hurt again.

'I don't think that would be wise,' I say. 'Too much has happened.'

'Like what?' he asks.

Oh yes, he's playing a game, all right; it's called 'acting clueless'.

'You know what,' I snarl.

'I slept with your wife.'

'Yes, indeed you did,' I say angrily. 'So don't pretend you want to be 'friends' again all of a sudden.'

'I hurt you more than she did, didn't I?' he remarks.

It sounds innocent enough, but I'm instantly alarmed. I know he's hinting at my … feelings for him.

I have hardly thought about anything else the previous two weeks. The fight and especially my conversation with Geraldine afterwards forced me to.

Walking back to the house, we were all shocked about the event. Rhonda, Matt and Denise started to make excuses why they shouldn't come in, so Geraldine and I went upstairs together. I was glad she didn't seem afraid of me.

She made tea, which we drank in silence, and I felt the urge to apologise.

'I'm sorry you saw me losing control that like,' I said. 'It has never happened before, and I'll make sure it'll never happen again.'

'It's okay,' she responded. 'I know it wasn't because of me. It wasn't because of me, was it?'

'No.' It was because of Henrietta. Maybe.

'Was it about your ex-wife?'

'I don't know. I think I snapped when I realised that he was … that he was once again trying to steal a woman from me.'

'Then it wasn't about me or your ex-wife, in fact.'

What did she mean by that? She looked at me as though she was referring to something significant.

'Cedric, what does Ian mean to you?'

'Nothing,' I said vehemently.

'That's rubbish,' she declared quietly. 'You wouldn't have hated him for nine years if he meant nothing to you.'

'He meant something to me, all right.' I was angry. I didn't like this interrogation. 'Past tense. He was my best friend, and he cheated on me with my wife.'

'You sound as though her part in this wasn't all that important.'

What? Why did she have to be so cryptic?

In the back of my mind I knew very well why; she was about to break some news to me that I wouldn't like to hear. About Ian. Oh, god.

'Listen,' she said. 'If it turns out that we're not meant to be it's a shame because I thought I had finally mastered the skill of being attracted to someone nice and decent. But I won't be devastated, for it has only been two weeks. And I don't want to be in a relationship with somebody who's actually in love with somebody else.'

'I'm not in love with Ian!' I yelled indignantly. 'My god, Geraldine, I'm not gay!'

I knew I was not, but she wasn't convinced. 'Well, you haven't been interested in women in nine years.'

'I haven't been interested in men either,' I retorted.

'Only in Ian,' she pointed out.

Oh, Jesus. 'I have hated him, not wanted him!' I snapped.

Finally, she nodded. But then she said, 'You have hated him with a passion for almost a decade, I know. You couldn't let him go, apparently. If he wasn't so important to you, I think you would have forgotten about him years ago, if not forgiven him.'

Oh, god, no. She was wrong. I didn't want to hear this.

She knelt by my chair, taking my hands in hers, looking a little sad. 'This is my theory. I'm not sure if it's correct, I truly hope it isn't, but I want you to think about it. And call me when you have come to a conclusion.'

I haven't called her yet, but I did arrive on a conclusion. I fought it, but it was inevitable in the end. I don't like it, though, and I intend to change it. I don't want to be homosexual, and I certainly don't want to suffer from eternal heartache over a prick like Ian Lovelace. Who is as straight as they come, and can't be trusted.

'Cedric?'

Hearing him calling my name snaps me out of it.

'I think you'd better go now,' I say, while I stand to stress my point.

He stands too, holding my glare. I avert my eyes and move towards the door. I'm serious about him leaving. As I walk passed him, he catches my wrist.

'Cedric.' A velvet voice.

'What do you want?' I snarl nervously.

He's so close. He looks at me. He smiles. It's not a smirk; it's a genuine smile. It's beautiful.

What is he doing? Trying to seduce me? I'm not going to let him; I know he can't be trusted.

'I want to try something,' he says gently. And then he kisses me softly on the lips.


	9. Ian: My first time

**Chapter 9**

_Ian:My first time_

One touch of lips isn't enough. For neither of us. I kiss him again, and he is responsive. He wants this; I wasn't mistaken. The realisation provokes unexpected emotions, in magnitude and character. I've known lust that drove me crazy before, but this is beyond lust. It's soft. Warm. Caring. Jesus.

I stroke his upper lip with my tongue. He opens his mouth. I go inside. God, this is wonderful slick and hot tongue swirling. He's moaning a little.

I let go of his wrist and put my arm around is back, pulling him closer.

I can feel he's hard. The notion and sensation of his arousal stiffens my penis. I'm not repulsed at all. I'm doing something I never thought possible – French kissing Cedric Carmichael and _relishing_ it – but I do. I need to take a breath though, so I extricate my lips from his mouth and start lick-kissing the line of his jaw and his throat.

He's mumbling 'no' over and over, but his words are in stark contrast with his behaviour. His head is tilted backwards, his dick is hard against mine, and he's clinging to me as though he intends never to let me go.

I do know what he means, though. If I stop, he'll be safe again. He doesn't trust me.

I attack his mouth once more, however, so he can't protest any longer. And I put my hand under his sweater and shirt to the naked skin of his back. Touching him feels electric, and unexpectedly different from touching a woman. The texture of the skin differs very much. Beneath my hand, I feel warm solidness, strength, and muscles. I like it. I want more of it.

'Let's go to the bedroom,' I suggest against his cheek.

If he hesitates, it's only for a fraction of a second. 'Yes,' he says hoarsely.

He lets go of me and moves quickly. I follow suit.

On the doorstep, we both hesitate. A scene similar to this (yet very different) occurred nine years ago. His then wife was also present at the time.

It's understandable that he doesn't want to go through with it. I can't push him. We'd better take it slow.

He seems to have made a decision, though. Not only to want to go through with it, but to take the lead as well, apparently. Taking my hand, he enters the room, pulling me along.

'Sit down,' he says, gesturing to the bed.

When I comply, he kneels and takes off my shoes and socks, very carefully and concentrated.

With his hands around my angles, he looks up. Dark eyes. Almost black right now. They come closer.

He claims my mouth. This is not by way of speech; it is exactly what he does. This kiss is entirely different from the one I initiated earlier. This is not soft and exploratory. This is aggressive. (Well, I know since recently that he's capable of aggression, don't I.) I am mouth-fucked by his tongue. And I love it. It's maddening too.

When I regain some of my brain, (partly because it's suddenly refilled with oxygen) I'm lying on my back on the bed. Cedric is leaning over me, regarding me solemnly. I know what the look means; he's asking for permission. To do what, I don't know, but it's all fine with me. I give him a slight nod.

Two thuds ensue. Shoes falling from his feet. He starts to unbutton my shirt, making sure to touch as much skin as possible in the process. He strokes my chest, nipples, abdomen. Then he places his hand over the lump in my trousers.

For the first time since I kissed him, what we're doing feels awkward. I know two men (if straight) shouldn't enjoy kissing each other like we did, but it just happened. It only felt wonderful and I didn't bother reassessing my sexuality. His hand on my cock is placed there with deliberation, however, which makes it feel more intimate somehow.

He removes his hand, and I instantly want to protest. Then he starts to remove his clothes. Efficiently, not at all teasing, but I'd never have thought that I would react this strongly to the sight of another man getting naked. My cock rears, my heart races, my mouth gets dry and I'm aching to touch him.

He turns towards me. Broad, smooth shoulders, ditto chest, tight pinkish-brown nipples, proud standing cock. My penis jerks again, and I realise I'm still almost completely dressed. Too focussed on Cedric's body to have done something about it.

I quickly loosen my belt and trousers. He takes the legs, pulls, and flings them through the room. Then he helps me to get rid of my jacket and shirt. I'm still in my briefs, but he doesn't seem to notice.

He lies down close beside me, putting his arms around me, rocking our bodies. It feels wonderful, but my underpants are nagging me.

He stops rocking and smiles at me (very sexily, I might add). 'My, Ian, I do believe you're captured by your briefs. Shall I attempt to free you?'

'That would be spiffing,' I reply gruffly.

He releases me by simply stroking my buttocks, genitals, and thighs under the fabric of my underpants, so they move downwards in the process. I push them down the last bit and kick them away.

It's a relief to be fully naked. It's also unexpectedly embarrassing. I have experienced numerous first-times in bed with a new partner, and being without clothes has never bothered me. I know I have nothing to be ashamed about. But now, I feel nervous. I'm lying on my back again. Cedric is regarding me with relish. He doesn't move.

I have been looked at, but never like this. Women, however lustful, were always regarding me with anticipation for what I was about to do to them, for my actions. I've never been the recipient of lustful looks alone, never been the one that was awaiting the action. It feels unfamiliarly vulnerable.

He moves. He strokes my thigh upwards, leans in and takes a keen interest in my genitals, judging from his explorations. It feels very nice. He leans in further, lowers his head … licks my penis. Up, down, and up again, and then he takes it in his mouth. Oh, Jesus.

This is also done to me before, of course. I previously have received blowjobs. But not like this. Not this skilfully warm, slick, wet alternate swirling, laving, sucking. My god, how does he _know_ this?

I groan. I'm on the verge of despair. It feels so good. I don't want it to end yet.

He adds something to the touch. His hand, partly at the root of my cock, partly cupped over my testicles, moves lower, rubbing my anus. I tense for a second. This is not an entrance. He keeps sucking though, exquisitely, and I relax. He keeps rubbing too, and it's starting to feel nice, even when he presses inside a little. Jesus.

Then he stops. He's gone. It's cold. I feel disoriented. I hear a drawer open and close, and he's back with a little jar of Vaseline. Oh, Jesus, no. I don't want …

But I'm transfixed by his moves. He opens the jar, applying Vaseline on his fingers, looking at me, hypnotising me, telling me this is a good idea, I only have to lay back and relax, he'll take care of everything.

I comply. I even spread my legs and bend my knees, so he has access. He applies the Vaseline around and a little bit inside my arse, then he takes some more from the jar. He builds it slowly, pressing in a little deeper every time. It feels uncomfortable at first, but then not anymore. His finger inside my slick hole feels wonderful, and I find myself pressing back for an even deeper touch.

God. I'm melting. There's a most exquisite spot there.

'Please,' I rasp. 'More.' (Am I really begging another man for more anal penetration?)

He ads another finger. It's good. It's heaven. But it's not what I really want. His fingers are inside, his eyes are upon me, gauging my arousal, but he's so far away. I want him closer, inside me, melting with me.

'Fuck me.' (God. Never before have I uttered these words as a plea.)

He stops moving, but his finger is still inside. 'I haven't got the right condoms,' he says solemnly. Regretfully.

Damn.

'We could do it without a condom,' I suggest. 'If you're not disgusted by the idea.' It feels a bit surreal to be sexually bargaining like this while having his finger up my arse.

'No, not at all.' He smiles, pushing a little. I gasp. He smirks. Then he gets serious again. 'It could be dangerous, though.'

'No,' I assure him. 'I might have been sleeping around, but I never did it bare backed.' (I don't like this part of the conversation. It reminds me that there's a context to this, that we both have pasts, one's that are partially mutual as well.) 'My health is too precious to me.'

'The few times I did it have also been with condoms,' Cedric remarks.

So this clears the way. And renders us indecisive. How to go from here to anal intercourse?

'If you would be so kind as to remove your finger from my arse, I can get on all fours,' I say, deliberately mixing two styles of speech in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

It smarts when he complies.

'Are you sure you want to do this?' he asks.

I nod. He takes the jar and slathers his cock with Vaseline. I swallow. It's very erotic, watching him touching himself like that.

'Turn around,' he says. Ah, he's in charge again.

He applies more Vaseline in my perineum, then takes position behind me. I feel the tip of his penis pressing against my anus. There's resistance, hurt, and then he's inside.

'Are you all right?'

I nod. 'Yes.'

He pushes forward, slowly, cautiously, until he reaches 'the spot'. God, he's completely inside now, I can feel this balls against my bum. He doesn't move though, and I crave motion.

'Cedric.'

'Lower your head, Ian.'

What? What kind of submission game is this?

'Please.'

Then I get it. If I lower my head and lean on my forearms, he not only has better access but can lean over me as well. More touch.

I do as I'm told, and he leans forward, straddling my shoulders. He's licking the back of my neck. His hips rock, pushing his cock deep inside me. This is bliss. Oh, god. Ohgodohgodohgod.

I push back against him. We adopt a rhythm together, not only physically but in voice as well. It's a mantra. I'm babbling, 'Cedric … yours … forever,' while he's mumbling, 'Oh, god … Ian … I love you.' If we weren't building mutual orgasms in the process, it would be inexcusably embarrassing.

I'm there first (and my penis wasn't even touched directly) groaning and splattering sperm flecks on the sheets. I tighten my arse again, more deliberate this time. And effectively as well. He moans loudly, then stills, pouring his liquid inside me. I find it a rather horny notion, even at such a point in time where I haven't even begun to enjoy the post-coital bliss of my first shag as the shaggee.

'I'm going to withdraw now,' Cedric warns softly.

I clench my teeth. It does smart.

I turn around and smile at him; it has been a while since I've last seen his face.

He doesn't smile back. He's wearing a stony expression.

'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' he says in a flat tone. 'Would you like a drink before you go home?'

Jesus. No, this isn't true. He hasn't been playing a game out of revenge for what I once did to him, has he?

If he has, he did a wonderful job. I feel raped all of a sudden, and I realise that I get a taste of what I did to numerous women whom I left or dismissed after a one-night stand. I didn't rape them technically – I had their full consent – but if it was needed, I let them believe the sex meant more, luring them into sleeping with me when they probably wouldn't have done so otherwise.

I also realise that I must have thought what Cedric and I just did meant more than what we just did (I wasn't aware of that before, because I had other priorities at the time, like enjoying the exquisite sensations he was providing me). I wouldn't feel so deceived otherwise. It's a big change. It occurs to me, rather wryly, that I did a complete role reverse just now, being not only on the receiving end of a fuck, but also of the rejection afterwards (and the misleading in between). And now I'm paying for it. It turns out that I have feelings – who knew. And they are hurt.

I glance at Cedric, noticing that he looks far from victorious; rather sad, and … small, for such a tall man.

And then it dawns upon me. He doesn't want me to go; he fears it. He's assuming that I'm going home after what we shared, as revenge because he beat me up. Jesus. If he thinks I would go to that length just to hurt him, he's deranged. Or scared.

I touch his shoulder. 'The drink is optional,' I say. 'But I'm not going home, unless you really want me to.'

He doesn't respond for a while, he's only regarding me. The expression on his face doesn't change. Maybe he has a hard time believing me. Finally, he says, 'I don't.'

'Then I'll stay,' I tell him.

And I do. When I drift asleep, Cedric is spooned behind me, holding me. What an incredibly sappy ending of the day.


	10. Cedric: My stay in paradise

**Chapter 10**

_Cedric:My stay in paradise_

It's incredible what happened last night. I can't believe it's not a dream, even if I'm looking at Ian's sleeping body lying in my bed right now, a bare two feet away from me. He's lying on his stomach, his face towards me, his eyes closed. His shoulders are not being covered by the sheets. He's incredibly beautiful. And arousing.

I yearn for him to wake up so I can touch him again, but I dread the moment as well. Will he have second thoughts? Will he be repulsed, and eager to leave? I know he genuinely enjoyed last night – he couldn't have been pretending; he asked me to penetrate him, for god's sakes –but it's one thing to have sex with another man in a heated moment of passion, it is another to look back on it the next morning, and not regret it.

Well, _I'm_ not regretting it. But then again, I am gay. This is a ridiculously easy notion to accept. I am gay and I'm in love with Ian Lovelace. I'm terrified to speculate about his feelings for me, yet I can't stop myself wondering. He's still asleep.

Something is touching my calf under the covers. I'm a little confused; his eyes are still closed and the expression on his face hasn't changed.

'Ian? Are you awake?' I ask softly.

'No,' he says. 'I'm fast asleep. Can't you tell?'

Ah. Well, if he's still asleep, it's only polite to leave him be, isn't it? I can wait.

After a while, he opens one eye, smiles, and closes it again, obviously 'sleeping'.

I sigh. He wins. I can't not touch him any longer. I reach out to stroke his back.

'Thank god,' he sighs dramatically. 'I thought you'd never touch me again.'

I scoot over to his side of the bed, and take him in my arms. He tilts his head, so I can kiss him. I do it lazily and without tongue, wondering if I can cause him to get impatient.

I can. He utters a frustrated moan, and forces his tongue between my lips.

We kiss for a while, like nothing else matters. I can feel his erection against mine. He starts thrusting his pelvis against my hips. It's wonderful. I could seize this, and not worry about anything than the present moment, but I want to know how soon he will leave today, and if I will ever see him again.

I don't respond to his thrusting, and he stops, breaks the kiss, and looks puzzled.

I clear my throat. 'What … what would you like to do today?'

It's a perfectly innocent question, or it would be, if my voice sounded more casually, and if the timing was different. He grins. I think he knows what's bothering me.

'Well,' he says slowly, 'I think we don't need to get up any time soon, for starters. Then breakfast, because physical exercise tends to make me hungry, followed by some weekend shopping, I guess. I noticed, for instance, that there was a serious dent made in your Vaseline supply last night. On the way back, we could drop by at my place so I could get some clean briefs and socks and a toothbrush before we go home. Then, we could watch cricket for a while, and afterwards you could help me make dinner. And finally, I'd say we make it an early night, for there are interesting things to do together tomorrow as well.'

For a moment, I don't know what to say. He wants to stay the whole weekend. He doesn't want to leave me for two entire days. I knew I could hope for this, but I didn't think it was within my reach.

'Does this fit in with your plans?' he asks.

'Yes,' I nod. 'Marvellously.'

'Good.' He starts to stroke my penis, and I give in to the sensation. I'm not going to worry about what will happen after the weekend. I can afford to postpone it for a day.

I resume kissing him, properly French this time, and I rub his penis as he does mine. He moans against my mouth, and I realise how easy it is to have sex with another man. There is no thinking about what to do (which there is with a woman; hard thinking and assessing what she will like) just knowing exactly what touches will cause pleasure.

'You know,' I whisper, 'there's still some Vaseline left. Maybe you could use it on me.'

I know he will like it. I liked it last night. It felt wonderful to be so close to him. And extremely arousing to have my penis surrounded by the tight clutching heat of his rectum. I suspect that being penetrated will feel even more intimate than spearing him did. I'm also nervous, because I fear it will hurt. But I still want it to happen. I want to know what it feels like.

'I'd like that,' he says, so I roll on my back while he takes the jar.

He starts rubbing my anus with Vaseline-fingers and I immediately know that I'm going to like this. When he presses inside, it hurts, but once he has entered, it feels nice. He reaches far inside and finds … my prostate, I think. Good lord, I had never imaged that a direct touch of it would feel like this.

'Ian,' I gasp.

He smiles. 'Is it good?'

'Yes,' I nod. 'Very.'

He continues to massage my prostate. My breath is racing and my penis is leaking liquid already.

'Ian. Please. Let me turn around.'

He stops and shakes his head. 'No. I want to look at you. If you lift your legs and spread them, I think we can manage.'

I do as he suggests. It's a strange feeling to want him so urgently inside me and at the same time be embarrassed about exposing myself like this.

I yelp as he enters.

'Shhh,' he says. 'It'll be great. You'll see.'

He's right. It's hot. It provides exactly the right friction, and it makes my penis become even harder.

He leans forward a little more. I spread wider. More pressing. Hotter feeling.

Through the daze of my arousal, I can see Ian watching me. His pale blue eyes are almost black now. It turns me on even more, and when he claims my mouth with a wet warm tongue, I climax. As he does a second later, I believe.

As I open my eyes, he's looking at me. His face is moist from sweat, and he's smiling. He's so beautiful.

I stroke his cheek. 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome,' he says. 'And likewise.'

He hints that he's going to withdraw, and I brace myself. It hurts indeed.

He lies down beside me, and rests his head on my chest. It occurs to me once more that it's amazing that I can hold him like this, that instead of enemies we are lovers (at least for the moment, I don't dare to think about what we will be in the future). I still don't understand how this could have happened, really.

His telepathic skills are well developed apparently, as he says, 'It's downright unbelievable that I'm lying in your arms right now, that I have had sex with you. Twice. If someone would have predicted me this a month ago, I would have laughed my head off or kicked the person's head in.'

'My sentiment exactly,' I say, kissing him.

He smiles. 'But then again, we hated each other with a passion. And I hear that passion is fundamental to good relationships.'

I don't know what to say. Is he referring to us being in a relationship? Maybe it was just a pun. I can't imagine Ian looking for something stable and long-term. And I don't want to think about it.

I kiss him again, thoroughly, and then I suggest we get up and take a shower.

'Excellent,' he says. 'A shower provides a fine romantic setting.'

I surprise myself by being aroused again, not even ten minutes after coming. I wasn't prepared for the sight of Ian showering with obvious pleasure, trickles of water caressing his naked skin. He opens his eyes and looks at my groin, smirking.

'Can I wash your hair?' I manage to say audible. I'd really like to do that. He has great hair. Dark, like mine, but he wears it longer.

He smiles pleasantly. 'What a perfectly sappy idea.'

I reach for the shampoo and apply some on his head. I start massaging his skull in a way I hope he will like (so it won't just be sappy).

'Mmm,' he says. 'This is wonderful. Are you sure it's your calling to be a barrister?'

'Yes, I am,' I respond, taking the head of the shower from the hook. 'A man has to have some hobbies too, though.'

'And yours is to wash people's hair,' he concludes, tilting his head backwards so I can rinse his hair.

He washes my hair too, and we wash each other's bodies (and I find the slick sensation rather erotic) being very careful with the perinea.

We dry (each other) and dress (our selves). Then we have breakfast, which teaches me that I find it cosy to share a meal with him in my kitchen. It makes him even more mine than the sex did, perhaps. It's couple-ish. (But I mustn't count my chickens before they have hatched.)

After breakfast, we go shopping for groceries. Ian has made a list for the things we need for dinner. It's going to be a stew. (He's good at those, apparently.)

Being in the supermarket with him, I find exciting, actually. I have never done shopping _with _somebody (except my mother), but I have envied the couples I saw discussing what to buy. It looked intimate to me. And Ian is willing to do this with me. (But that doesn't have to mean anything, I remind myself.)

'Darling, would you please focus on the matter at hand?' he says.

His words snap me out of my musing, especially the first one.

'Right,' he smirks. 'Now that I have your undivided attention, you can point out to me where I can find this stuff.' (He waves with his list.) 'I need your help, because this joint,' – he gestures at the supermarket – 'is completely unfamiliar to me.'

I walk him trough the isles. He gets what we need, and throws it in the cart. From quite a distance too, when the products can take it. I gather he wants to show that he's a real macho – to me and to the other customers. Watching him very much endears me.

God, I'm in a sappy mood today. But that's hardly surprising. I'm head over heels in love, and I never before experienced something remotely like it. I was attracted to Henrietta and to Geraldine, but not like this.

'Now, do we have everything we need?' he asks.

'Yes, I think we do, besides milk and dessert,' I respond, glad that I paid attention.

'Wouldn't I suffice as dessert?' he says in a theatrically hurt tone. Then he gives me a meaningful leer.

I resent him doing this; deliberately arousing me in the middle of a supermarket.

'Ian, please, don't.'

He smiles. 'I only wanted to share my sorrow. Can't you tell that I need all my strength to keep from grabbing and kissing you in an all but friendly manner, right here, right now?'

I swallow. He's only making it worse.

'Well, to soothe the pain, let's have double dessert tonight,' I say.

As we arrive at his house when the groceries are done, he tells me to wait in the car while he gets the things he needs. I instinctively protest. I don't want to leave him out of sight. (I hate to admit it, but some part of me fears he won't return.)

He places one hand on my arm and opens the door with the other. 'Relax. I'll be back in five minutes.' He kisses me softly on the lips. 'I love you.' Then he's gone.

Jesus. He loves me. He said he loves me. It hurts. It's painful to realise that I don't believe him. Well, I do believe that he was sincere in his statement, but I don't believe it necessarily will be valid tomorrow. I have been able more or less to repress this thought, but now I can't. Not when he has declared his love to me.

'Cedric, what's wrong?' He's back and gets in the car again.

'Nothing,' I respond. I shake it off. He returned. He wants to go to my place and spend the night with me. I'll have to be content with that.

When we're home and putting groceries away, I _am_ happy. I like watching him walking around, opening and closing cupboards. I like him bonding with my kitchen.

'Okay, let's make some stew,' he says.

I'm appointed cutter. He's assigned stirrer. Many touches are exchanged and there's a lot of kissing while we acquit ourselves of our respective tasks, but we manage to prepare the stew.

Then we watch cricket. He loves to watch cricket. I can see him getting completely absorbed in it, forgetting all about me. I don't even mind for the moment. I love to watch him.

The stew is delicious and the dessert 'pretty good, but not as good as the one we'll have after this, you realise that, don't you?' thus Ian.

As we're lying in bed (at as early a time as ten o'clock) I know that he was absolutely right.

It's quite shocking to notice how my body craves his, considering this is the third time in 24 hours that we make love.

'I've missed you,' he smiles, ending a rather wild kiss.

He places his hand around my penis and starts stroking it. I want to return the favour, but he asks me not to. 'Lay on your back. I want to do this right,' he says, wriggling from my embrace. He sits at my hip, and bends over. I feel the warm, wet sensation of his tongue laving the shaft of my cock, then the tip. And then he envelops me with his lips. I feel the blood rushing to my groin when he starts sucking, and I can't help bucking my hips and making sounds. It's wonderful. It's completely incomparable to when Henrietta or Geraldine did it. Maybe it is the relish with which he's doing it. Or maybe it's just the fact that it's him.

'Ian,' I gasp.

He hums something, but doesn't stop. I want him to stop. I'm on the verge of climaxing and I don't want …

'Ian, stop. You mustn't … I am …'

But he doesn't listen. He keeps sucking, and my bliss is mixed with horror when I come in his mouth. Even then, he doesn't extricate his lips from my penis. He swallows. Jesus Christ.

I close my eyes, trying to control my breath. I do not dare to look at him. When I open them again, he's watching me.

'I'm sorry,' I say, embarrassedly.

'Why?'

'For coming before you could …'

'I wanted to taste you,' he says. 'Didn't you like it?'

'Yes. I did. But …'

'Would you have been repulsed if I'd shoot in your mouth when you sucked me last night?'

I think about this, and realise that the answer is no. Not at all. It's just that I still can't believe that he indeed does requite my feelings for him.

He interprets the expression on my face correctly, as it appears. He smiles. 'I thought so,' he says.


	11. Cedric: My learning to trust

**Chapter 11**

_Cedric:My learning to trust_

Sunday's start resembles Saturday's. We sleep in late. We make love. (I discover that holding each other, thrusting and sliding our cocks together, also is effectively pleasurable. I smile at the thought – and feeling – of the mixed semen samples on our abdomens, as I roll off him and lick him clean, recalling his taste from yesterday, when I sucked him off the way he had me.) We shower. We eat breakfast. Gradually my mood drops, though. For all I know, this could be our last day together. (There are contraindications, I'm aware of that, but I find myself unable to rely on them.) I don't raise the subject of our future; I fear his answer, and I don't want to scare him away.

He suggests we go for a walk in the park, and I agree with a heavy heart. He wants to go to a public place; he doesn't want to be alone with me anymore.

We walk in silence. The weather is cold, but sunny. It's actually very nice, but it can't dissolve my gloom. I feel as though Ian is already drifting away.

He touches my arm and stops me, thus attracting the attention of a couple walking passed us on the rather busy path.

'What's wrong?' The look in his eyes is one of concern as well as determination. He's not going to accept a pseudo-explanation.

'It bothers me that I don't know whether I will see you again after today,' I respond.

His expression shifts, I guess, from concern to hurt to understanding, and then back.

'I have to go home tonight,' he says. 'We both have to work tomorrow, and the rest of the week. But you could come to dinner on Wednesday and stay the night if you'd like.' He regards me with anticipation, as though he isn't certain what my reply will be.

'I'd like that very much,' I tell him, feeling guilty about my mistrust. I want to embrace him, kiss him, but we're in the middle of a very busy park.

He smiles a little. 'Don't you dare to kiss me?'

I shake my head.

'Sissy. Was then. Is now,' he remarks.

Is not. Am not. Indignant, I grab him and plant a not so subtle kiss on his mouth.

There's the sound of skeelers stopping in their tracks on the gravel. As we look up, I see a boy of about twenty glaring at us.

'Wow,' he says. 'Sorry for staring at you like this, but wow.'

I look askance at Ian, who's smiling pleasantly at the bloke. I feel an instant flair of jealousy. (Oh, stop it, Cedric.)

The boy pursues his way. When he's a couple of yards away, he turns his head and shouts, 'If you ever break up, call me. Either of you.'

I feel quite embarrassed. Ian seems to think it's all tremendously funny.

'Oh, come on, darling,' he says, taking my hand. In a firm grip, so I can't pull away (which certainly is my reflex). 'You'd better get used to it. We can't hide for the rest of your lives.'

I should be ecstatic that he's referring to a mutual future like this, that he doesn't mind people thinking that we're a couple, but I can't. I do feel better than when we started our walk though, and when he relaxes his grip around my hand, I leave it in his.

He leaves at eight, after dinner. I've dreaded the moment since we got home from our walk. I hate to have to wait three whole days before I'll see him again. (If I'll see him again). I have even negotiated an earlier date, but he didn't change his mind. 'I want to be able to miss you,' he said.

'Can I at least call you if I need to hear your voice?'

He gave me a strange look. Yes, I'm a sissy, all right.

'Well, you could always listen to my recorded voice on the answering machine,' he said, smirking at me.

He's putting on his coat. He kisses me. Passionately. When I have the opportunity to breathe again, he says, 'See you on Wednesday. Call me anytime.'

I don't. I suppress the urge, because I know it's not there because I miss him (which I do in a terrible fashion, by the way) but because I'm still not able to trust him. I crave his confirmation that we have a date on Wednesday as a junky craves his shot of heroin. But I decide not to be a sissy about it. I have to trust him at least insofar he trusts himself.

So I go to work, I check jurisprudence, I interview clients and I prepare the odd plea. And I think about Ian a lot.

On Wednesday, I arrive at his place at five to seven. I announce my presence through the intercom and he presses the buzzer to open the door. As I have climbed the first staircase, I can see him standing in the doorway of his apartment, smiling broadly. God, he's beautiful. God, I've missed him. I force myself to walk the remaining stairs slowly, but I find myself running the last steps.

He drags me inside, closes the door, and strips me of my coat, kissing me thoroughly.

'God, I've missed you,' he says when we both need to breathe.

I scan the door in the hall, trying to assess which one will lead to the bedroom. He reads my mind.

'Patience, darling. Dinner will be ready in five minutes.'

Blast.

Sitting opposite of him, I'm barely able to eat. I'm completely transfixed by the sight of him eating, taking in food, chewing, swallowing. I envy the spaghetti he has made. (I have seen him eat before, but it didn't have the impact on me it has now. Apparently, a mere three days of sexual deprivation can render a newly gay man helpless.)

'Aren't you hungry?' There's a glint in his eyes. I know this is a double entendre.

I decide that I, too, can play. 'Oh, but I am hungry,' I say, throwing him a meaningful glare. 'Just not after the spaghetti.'

'Ah. So you'd prefer we skip it and go right for dessert, I gather.'

'I'd appreciate it if we did, yes,' I say solemnly.

He grins. 'I bet you do. We're going to save this, though.' He gestures at the pasta. 'After I'm done with you, you're so going to need your calories.'

He quickly clears the table and drags me into his bedroom. The lights are switches on already, and dimmed, and the curtains are closed. It endears me somehow, that he has made preparations. I almost gasp when I see a very large jar of Vaseline figuring on the bedside table.

'I want you to fuck me,' he explains. From the look in his eyes, I can judge that he means it.

Oh, I want this. I want him. But I don't want to rush things. I begin to undress him. Slowly, relishing the sight of him getting naked.

'Damn it, Cedric. I thought you were hungry,' he mutters.

'Patience, my love,' I smile at him.

As I've taken off all his clothes, I usher him to the bed, so that he can see me strip from there.

'Jesus. You're a real cockteaser, you know that?' he says, when my boxer shorts fall down at my angles.

I smile when I crawl next to him. Smugly, I admit.

He kisses me urgently. As though it is the only way that can save him from drowning. When we both submerge from the water, he says, 'Fuck me now, Cedric. Please, I don't want to wait.'

I now know how to make him open for me, how to apply the right amount of Vaseline. I sit on my knees, legs spread widely. He is lying on his back, his knees bent over my thighs. The slick tip of my penis nudges at his anus. He looks at me, nods. I enter.

He moans. I still, to let him get used to the feeling of having me inside. Then I start to thrust. Slowly, but deep enough to touch his prostate.

I feel a hot rush running trough my body, melting me, turning me liquid. It feels so incredibly wonderful, a union like this. With Ian. My Ian.

'More,' he's gasping. 'Harder. Please.'

I lean in a little, grabbing hold of his penis and stroking it firmly. I thrust. Hard and fast. He's making high-pitched noises. Sounds of surrender. He tenses, and I feel his rectum contract and my hand getting wet. I love him.

I say it aloud. Then I thrust once again and shoot.

'I love you.'

He grabs my head and pulls it lower to kiss me. 'God. Cedric, I love you too.'


	12. Ian: My one true love

**Chapter 12**

_Ian:My one true love_

I do not recognise my reflection in the mirror. At first glance, it doesn't differ much from before, but a closer look reveals that my face has undergone some subtle alteration. Especially my eyes have changed. I have no difficulty to diagnose it. I have seen this happen to other people (often women in my close proximity). It means that they are in love.

I am in love. I know I am.

It's a very unfamiliar feeling to me. I had never thought the day would arrive that I would acknowledge the truth of what is said about the state of being in love; the more intense and beautiful colouring of the world it provokes, the light-headedness, the preoccupation, the little shocks at everything that reminds one of the love-interest (and almost everything does indeed).

Being in love with someone differed greatly from wanting somebody, or so I understood from the media. And I agreed. I grasped that the former was for women and sissies (train of thought stops immediately here, smile occurs as a name pops up; his name) and the latter was for studs like me. Many times, have I desired, chased and slept with women. Never it caused me to admire the colouring of the world, or rendered me light-headed or preoccupied. Or repeatedly whispering a name when I was the sole person in the room. (Cedric. Cedric. Cedriccedriccedric.) At 35, I'm in love for the first time. And not even with a woman.

I so much enjoy being with him. To look at him (beautiful and sexy as he is), to talk to him (his earnest makes me smile sometimes, and reconsider my points of view at others), to make love to him (as opposed to having sex. It's sappy, I know, but it's true).

He's happy too when he's with me, I can tell. He's as much in love with me as I am with him. But the trust issue is a persistent bugger. I know he's constantly anticipating my announcement of leaving him. He would have been, even if I hadn't been so stupid as to tell him (in a post-coital daze, that's my only excuse) that I never before have been attracted to a single person for more than a fortnight.

The moment I said it, I realised the effect wasn't that he felt special (as I had meant him to do) but that he braced himself for losing me. I took him in my arms and said that I wasn't planning to leave him, but he wouldn't be reassured. And why should he be? For all he knows I tend to be easily bored with love interests. In college, he witnessed that I'm not the faithful kind.

In the days that followed, I watched him bravely repress his fear of my falling out of love any time soon, until it was barely noticeable. But sometimes I caught him looking at me with melancholy. As he is now. He's looking sad.

I put down the manuscript I have been reading. 'Cedric, I truly love you,' I say solemnly. 'I'm in love with you. I think I can honestly say that you're the only one I've ever fallen in love with. And I think it happened some 17 years ago.'

After a pause, he concludes in a soft tone of voice, 'When we were in college.'

'Yes,' I nod. 'I didn't understand it, of course, or I didn't want to. I just slept with numerous women to keep busy, I suppose. Not to feel what I was feeling.' I catch his eye. 'And it was effective. I liked it. But I haven't been in love with any of those women.'

God, what a jerk have I been.

'And Henrietta?'

Oh, Jesus. Henrietta. I shake my head. 'No. Cedric, I'm so terribly sorry. It's was unbelievably stupid and cruel of me to hurt you the way I did.'

He nods. 'Yes, it was. But not because of her.' He stops to think for a moment. 'I guess I married her because she showed interest in me. No one had done that before.'

(This is true. He chose to be constantly in my shadow, so they couldn't see him.)

'But most of all I married her to show you that I too could have a woman,' he resumes. 'In the end it was all about you. I worshipped you. I think I, too, fell in love the moment I saw you, but I didn't recognise it. It wasn't physical, at least I didn't admit to myself it was. But when I caught you … with her … I was devastated. It was as though a dream was shattered. One that I hadn't been aware of.'

I walk over to the couch and put my arms around him. He leans into my embrace.

'Let me mend it,' I say softly in his ear. 'Please. I want to make you happy.'

He turns his head to look at me – sad. I stroke his cheek and kiss him gently. 'I have no intension of leaving you,' I say. 'I have just begun to taste the joy of making you happy. And I find it very addictive.'

He rests his head against my chest. I comb my fingers through his hair. 'You've changed me, Cedric. You probably did 17 years ago, but I needed nine years of solitude, and a good beating up to realise it.'

'I'm sorry.' He cringes, probably at the thought of our fight.

'Don't be,' I tell him. 'I needed it to finally see things clearly. Just as I needed the wonderful way in which you eased my pain afterwards.'

He turns his head and kisses me. 'But there is still some of it left to ease, I hope.'

'Indeed there is,' I leer.

The day before our two-week's anniversary, when we both get into our respective cars to go to work, I realise that I want it to be a special evening (and night). I decide that I need flowers and a reservation at a fancy restaurant to start with. I grin at the thought of wooing him.

When I drive passed the building where Geraldine Brady works nowadays, it occurs to me that I need to do something else as well. I'm a changed man. A changed man who has to make amends.

At five o' clock, when she's leaving work, I'm waiting for her with a bunch of flowers.

She looks away when she sees me, and walks right passed me. Then she reconsiders. 'What do you want, Ian?' she asks hostilely.

I give her the flowers. 'These are for you.'

'This is a really ridiculously expensive bouquet,' she notices. Then she eyes me suspiciously. 'Why?'

'I'll tell you in a minute,' I promise. 'But first, read the cart, please.'

'Dear Geraldine,' she reads aloud. 'We offer you our sincerest apologies. We're aware of the fact that we owe you a lot. Many thank and much love from Ian and Cedric.'

I'm pleased to see she looks surprised.

'What does this mean?' she asks.

I redeem my promise by telling her that I did some thinking after Cedric battered me, and that I concluded I had to talk to him. And that I didn't go home, the night I paid him a visit.

Her jaw drops. 'You … slept with him?'

'Yes,' I nod. It feels strange to tell a third party about this, but joyful as well. I feel a smile creeping up my face and I hear myself starting to ramble. About Cedric. His beauty, his eyes, his wonderfulness, basically. In every detail. I seem not to be able to stop.

When I finally do stop, Geraldine looks flabbergasted. 'Gee, Ian. I've never before heard you talk about anything or anyone with such enthusiasm, not even about a book or a manuscript.'

'I've … I've changed,' I say.

'You certainly have,' she agrees. 'What did he do to you?' Without waiting for my reply, she adds, 'No, don't tell me. It's just a rhetorical question.'

She smells the flowers. 'They're lovely. So … is he happy?'

'I think he is, yes.'

'Are you planning to keep him that way?' Stern, interrogative tone here.

'Yes, I am.'

'Good.' She steps back. 'Well, then …'

'Geraldine. I'm so sorry about it all,' I blurt out. 'I was … I was wondering if we could see you sometime, perhaps.'

She thinks about this. Then she shrugs. 'Sure. It might not be a girl's dream scenario to have two of her former boyfriends fall in love with each other, of course, but at least I can say that I was instrumental in bringing them together.'

'You were,' I put in.

'And besides, where room is for one gay, there's room for three, as I always say.'

'Matt?' I say. As she nods, I venture that I indeed thought he fancied me, the one time we met.

She laughs. 'Well, Ian, apparently it hasn't been a complete change after all.'

He's happy to see me. He's also very disinterested in the flowers I'm holding when he opens the door for me. He takes them from me, and lays them on the little table in the hall, even before he pulls me inside to kiss me.

I take off my coat and nod at the flowers. 'They're for you. And they are very expensive.'

He's still not interested. 'Are they indeed?' Somehow, I think he's playing with me.

'Oh, yes, they are,' I say. 'Fortunately, I bought two of them, so I got a discount.' If this was meant to invoke his curiosity and suspicion (and it was) it isn't working.

'Oh, really?' he says casually. 'And you gave the other one to one of your lady-friends, I gather?'

'How did you know?' I blurt out. Damn.

'Geraldine called me yesterday,' he explains. 'We had a long conversation, mainly about you. She thought you had changed. She also told me she'd like to add us to her circle of acquaintances. The more gays the gayer, she said, or something to that effect.'

He looks at me, and leans in to kiss me. I gesture vaguely at the bouquet. 'They're anniversary flowers,' I mumble to his lips.

'I know,' he sighs. 'I'd rather not have them.'

What? 'Why not?'

'I'd rather you gave them to me in the morning.'

Oh. Now I see. By that time, we will have crossed that dangerous fortnight's threshold he fears so much.

I catch his eye. 'I know my resume doesn't speak for me,' I say solemnly, 'but I truly love you, Cedric. Besides, now, I've tasted the advantages of being faithful to you. And I intend never to lose them.'

He puts his arms around me, holding me tight. 'Don't ever leave me,' he says in a muffled voice. It's the expression of a wish, not an order.

'Never,' I respond. It's not a guarantee. It can't be. But it is a way of telling him that I know we hope for the same.


End file.
